


A Story That is Not About a Shark

by GretaRama



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil's Jaws slashfic, Fluff, It's about Cecilos, It's not really about Jaws, M/M, Other, Porn (ish) with plot though, Romance, Sexual Content, Shark Autopsy, fluff and smut and sharks, you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3679989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaRama/pseuds/GretaRama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay. I wrote Cecil's <i>Jaws</i> slashfic. The whole thing. </p><p>
  <i>A friendly beach community where the sun was hot, the water was beautiful, and a deadly prehistoric monster haunted the water just beyond the point where the ocean lapped the shore.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Welcome to Amity Island,” said the billboard outside town. “Help! Shark!” had been scrawled in a word balloon next to a cartoonish bathing beauty, who greeted tourists with a bikini and a smile. In the blue water beside her, an ominous triangle had been spray-painted, rising from the waves. The townspeople were understandably upset about the billboard, since the objectification of the female form for the purpose of advancing the financial interests of local businesses was vulgar and degrading to everyone.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Carlos had been surprised by all the trash and junk he had found in the desert otherworld, every tennis ball, broken microwave, disused bloodstone, and crumpled cracker box (many of the items thrown over the wall of the Night Vale Dog Park were related to the clandestine consumption of wheat and wheat by-products). But there was one item so remarkable, so completely unexpected and absurd and impossible, it made him doubt the impartiality of the universe.

While he and Doug and Alisha and the other masked warriors combed the sand in search of potentially useful items, a crumpled ball of paper drifted across a dune and rolled to a halt at Carlos’s feet. He picked it up, stuffed it onto his knapsack with several other small objects, and promptly forgot about it.

At the end of the day, he emptied the knapsack onto a table and sorted through the detritus he had collected. He was about to toss the wadded papers into the trash pile, when he caught a glimpse of familiar handwriting on a Post-It stuck to the front page. Hands trembling, he carefully smoothed out the stapled sheets.

Cecil’s endearingly loopy cursive adorned a pink Post-It stuck the first page. _Maureen – could you please proofread/edit and let me know what you think? Thanks! –C_

Beneath that note was another: _Cecil: You have Got. To be kidding. –Maureen_

Several other notes had gotten stuck together and Carlos removed each and placed them in what he thought was probably chronological order.

_Maureen: I never kid about the NVCR intern program! You can ask one of the other interns to take over your keening duties in the meantime. -C_

_Cecil: FINE. One thing jumped out at me right away: wasn’t Brody married in the movie?_

_Maureen: I don’t remember Brody being married, did you maybe see a non-redacted version somewhere? Because that would be very unsafe._

_Cecil: I’m done. This was gross (mostly). I made the rest of my notes and corrections in the text. – Maureen_

It was Cecil’s _Jaws_ slashfic, copy edited by Intern Maureen. Carlos immediately began to read.

* * *

 **Take Another Little Bite of My Heart** (a note with an arrow pointing to the title read: _Oh, Cecil. No._ )

A friendly beach community where the sun was hot, the water was beautiful, and a deadly prehistoric monster haunted the water just beyond the point where the ocean lapped the shore.

“Welcome to Amity Island,” said the billboard outside town. “Help! Shark!” had been scrawled in a word balloon next to a cartoonish bathing beauty, who greeted tourists with a bikini and a smile. In the blue water beside her, an ominous triangle had been spray-painted, rising from the waves. The townspeople were understandably upset about the billboard, since the objectification of the female form for the purpose of advancing the financial interests of local businesses was vulgar and degrading to everyone.

(Below the introductory paragraph, Carlos saw, a note in the margin read: _I thought the billboard said “Amity Island Welcomes You?”_ )

The townspeople were also upset about the mangled, partially-devoured bodies that kept washing up on the beach, and this was the issue that was foremost on the mind of Police Chief Martin Brody on this particular day.

Just that afternoon, hordes of locals and even a handful of interlopers had launched their boats into the harbor, armed with everything from kitchen knives to dynamite, all hunting the shark that lurked somewhere just beyond the breakers, exacerbating the problem. Now, in addition to the problem of a human-eating shark, he had to worry about saving his charges from their indifferent political representatives and even – hardest of all – themselves.

The Mayor was the real sticking point, Brody decided. He would just have to try again to get him to close down the beaches. But even as he lifted the phone to his ear, the station’s front door swung open and a dazzlingly handsome young man in a denim jacket and longshoreman’s cap entered, limned in bright sunlight.

( _Ugh, Cecil,_ Maureen had written. _Nobody is ever limned in anything. No._ )

“Any idea where I might find Police Chief Brody?” the man asked. He took off his hat, revealing a glorious head of tousled dark hair.

Brody’s heart shuddered, and he pressed a hand to his chest in response to the unfamiliar sensation. It wasn’t every day that beautiful strangers came looking for him, and especially not such _exceptionally_ beautiful strangers, with coffee-colored skin and liquid black eyes.

(Here, Maureen had written: _Richard Dreyfus is blond and his eyes are blue, WTF?_ A second note in Cecil’s distinctive script read: _Richard Dreyfus is just one possible interpretation of the character. Don’t be such a fascist, Maureen!_ )

“That’s me,” he said, setting the phone down and standing.

“Matt Hooper,” the man said, extending his hand. “From the Oceanographic Institute.” He grinned, and Brody felt something hard and solitary inside himself begin to crumble.

“You’re the scientist we called?” he asked, recovering some of his composure, but only with an effort. “I’m Martin Brody. You can call me Brody, everyone does.”

“In that case, please call me Matt. I’m really glad to meet you.” And if he held on to the Police Chief’s hand for a few seconds longer than was customary, Brody certainly wasn’t going to complain about it.

“Yeah,” Brody replied. “I’m glad to meet you too.” A moment passed, and neither man spoke, but that is not to say that communication did not continue on some level.

* * *

Over the course of the next several days, Brody worked closely with Matt, first to establish that the deaths were indeed being caused by a shark, and then to try and persuade the Mayor and City Council that closing the beaches was the only way to prevent further attacks. They succeeded in the former, but failed in the latter.

“There is no giant shark,” the Mayor said, pounding clenched fists on his desk. “That could never, _ever_ be real!”

“But it _is_ real,” Matt protested. “We’ve proven that using science. It’s incontrovertible.”

“Have you _seen_ this giant shark? No? Then how do you know for sure? It might be anything. It might just be plastic bags being carried around in the current,” the Mayor said.

Matt gaped in surprise, but the Mayor returned his look with a hollow stare. “Plastic bags?” Matt said. “That’s crazy. Plastic bags don’t rip people’s limbs off. They don’t take huge bites of people and reduce them to chunks. They don’t -”

Brody stopped him before he could start any real trouble. “Come on,” he said. “The mayor is…” he gritted his teeth for a second, holding his feelings in check only with an effort, “probably right. Let’s go.”

“I don’t know how you can stand it,” the scientist said as they stepped out of the Mayor’s offices and into the afternoon sunlight. “It’s like this whole town has gone crazy.”

“It’s never easy, being in a position of responsibility in a small town,” Brody replied mildly.

“You have quite a way with understatement,” Matt, said, as he pulled off his glasses and cleaned them absently on the tail of his shirt. Without the small round frames, his face looked strangely naked and vulnerable, and he squinted a little as he turned to face Brody. “I guess it’s up to you and me to figure this out, then.” He grinned, and he looked so perfectly gorgeous that Brody caught his breath.

It felt as natural as breathing to ask, “Would you like to have dinner?”

* * *

That afternoon, a local fisherman caught a large tiger shark and brought it back to the town dock where an impromptu celebration occurred. The mayor made a statement, which Brody caught on the radio on his way home that evening.

“Even though the recent spate of deaths was certainly _not_ caused by a giant shark, since giant sharks are not real, I’m sure we are all glad that this relatively large but certainly _not giant_ shark has been apprehended before he could embark on a life of crime. The beaches will remain open for the upcoming holiday weekend.”

Brody sighed as he switched off the ignition of his truck and carried his groceries inside. His house offered a stunning view of the sea, but he almost never looked at it. He found the sea unsettling, and always had. It was so vast, so unknowable, and so powerful. It made him feel isolated, and small, and helpless. Life was hard enough without the vast and indifferent eye of the abyss fixed upon him. He flipped the wand of the venetian blinds to screen out the view, and set to work on dinner.

As he cooked, he thought about Matt Hooper. The scientist’s enthusiasm for discovery made him feel hopeful. He had been at a loss as to how to proceed as shark attack victims had washed up in ever-increasing numbers on Amity’s sandy shores. Although Brody wasn’t entirely sure how understanding the shark would help, it did at least make the animal seem less frightening. And it was, after all, just an animal, wasn’t it? It certainly wasn’t some ancient spirit of nature’s eternal spite sent to wreak revenge upon the arrogant and greedy denizens of Amity Island. That would be ridiculous.

Brody thought, too, about his increasingly close friendship with the scientist. For years, Brody had been alone, isolated among the citizens of Amity Island. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him, but there was a distance between him, as the Police Chief, and everyone else – a distance that he couldn’t traverse.

So, he was solitary, but not necessarily lonely; or at least, if he _was_ lonely, he wasn’t lonely for anyone in particular. Now, his vague wanting had been sharpened by specificity into a poignant longing for this man, for Matt Hooper. It made him feel hungry, and reckless.

Matt turned up right on time, in a clean flannel shirt and jeans, his hair loose and untidy around his face and shoulders. Brody’s fingers itched to brush hair away from his forehead and straighten his untidy collar. “I brought red and white,” Matt said, holding up the two bottles. “I wasn’t sure what we were having.”

“I think either one – or both - would be fine,” Brody said, taking both bottles and setting them on the dining room table. “So, tell me – how did you get into sharks?” he asked, as he hurried around the kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner.

“Oh…well, I’ve always loved sharks, as long as I can remember.”

“That’s funny,” Brody said “Most people are terrified of sharks. Of course nobody knows very much about them, and things are always scary when we don’t understand them.” He rummaged in a drawer. “Here’s a corkscrew. Why don’t you pour us something?”

Matt poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Brody. “I used to be scared of them. They’re amazingly powerful animals, and I’ve seen them do some incredible and horrifying things. But that’s what’s so great about science – one person’s horror movie is another person’s lifetime of scientific research. How’d you get into policing?”

“The usual way,” Brody said, as he laid out plates and napkins on the table. “Prophecy, blood sports, a fortnight’s vigil in front of the chalk spire at town hall…you know.”

They continued to talk as they ate dinner, the conversation moving away from sharks and on to other matters. Brody was pleased that Matt had chosen to pull a chair close to his own, so they occupied a small intimate corner of the table rather than sitting formally across from one another. Their knees bumped together from time to time, and after the first few times, they stopped apologizing and let them remain touching. Matt had even moved his knee gently against Brody’s once or twice.

Then there was the way Matt looked at him. Brody had learned the value of watching people’s eyes, of the power of a direct gaze. Eye contact could be violent, it could be threatening, and it could certainly be sexual. Matt flicked his gaze from Brody’s eyes to his lips in a slow up and down motion from time to time, a glance that felt as sensuous as a caress. It left Brody breathless, just as if Matt had stroked a hand along his thigh.

They had finished the entire first bottle of wine and were well into the second when they circled back around to sharks again, and the recent developments with the Mayor and the temporary beach closure that had followed the most recent shark attack.

“I guess you probably heard…they think they’ve caught the shark,” Brody said.

“I saw it this afternoon,” Matt said. “It’s a tiger shark. It’s definitely not the fish behind these attacks.”

“No,” Brody answered. “But it’s always like this – a ritual hunt, some chanting and blood sacrifices, and everyone thinks the problem is solved.”

“Well,” Matt said. “Where is it now?”

“In a freezer down at the harbor.”

Matt leaned forward and emptied the last of the wine into their glasses. “So?” he asked. “Did they even bother to cut it open to see if it was a man-eater?”

“Nope.”

“Huh,” Matt said, glancing up at Brody over the rim of his glass. “Sure would be nice to know for sure.”

“You know…we could go down there and cut the shark open now. If you want.” Brody inhaled slowly to steady himself, and added, “I mean, it’s not exactly romantic, but I’m starting to find all this science extremely interesting.” He was almost certain he wasn’t misreading any cues – Matt’s knee pressed against his seemed like a very clear signal – but misunderstandings had occurred in the past.

“Not romantic? You and me in an isolated seafood refrigerator down at the harbor, just the two of us and one dead tiger shark?” Matt smiled his brilliant perfect smile and covered Brody’s hand with his own. “Sounds pretty romantic to me.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Brody said, with a sigh of hopeful relief.

* * *

“We start in the alimentary canal…and open the digestive tract,” Matt said, as he sliced open the shark’s belly, releasing a flood of reeking fluid across the concrete floor. It ought to have been disgusting, but something about Matt’s scientific enthusiasm made it fascinating instead. In addition to the expected bits of fish flesh, milky digestive juices and unidentifiable hunks of gristle, there was a partially digested tennis shoe, a tin can, and even a complete Louisiana license plate.

“He came up in the gulf stream from southern waters,” Matt said, pointing at the license plate.

“He didn’t eat a car, did he?” Brody asked, only half-joking.

Matt laughed. “No, a tiger shark’s like a garbage can, they’ll eat anything. Someone probably threw that in a river.” He studied the remaining stomach contents critically. “Well, that’s it. This is definitely not the shark we’re looking for. And there’s still a hell of a fish out there, with a mouth about this big.” He held his hands apart, slightly wider than his chest.

“Is there any way to confirm that by morning?”

Matt rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and once again Brody felt a tug of longing. The unconscious gesture was utterly adorable. “If there’s any truth to territoriality at all, there’s a good chance of spotting him between Cape Scott and South Beach.” He took Brody’s hand. “Come on,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

“You mean where are _we_ going. We’re going to find him right now. He’s a night feeder.” He pulled gently on Brody’s hand, and Brody stumbled forward reluctantly.

“On the water?” he asked.

“Well, yeah,” Matt said. “He’s a shark, we’re not going to find him on land.”

“I have little bit of a phobia about the ocean,” Brody confessed.

“Good thing we have a boat, then,” Matt replied.

Matt studied Brody’s face, and their eyes met and held. They were standing close together, and Brody became aware suddenly that the scientist smelled nice, the homely, unpretentious fragrance of laundry soap cutting through the rancid fug of shark guts.

 _This is an actual human being who does laundry,_ Brody thought. _This improbably beautiful person hauls dirty clothes to the laundromat and buys cardboard boxes of powdered detergent out of coin op machines. This gorgeous creature stands around waiting for the dryer to stop spinning, pretending not to watch the soap operas on the overhead televisions._ It all seemed impossible.

“I’m not drunk enough to go out on a boat,” Brody said.

“Yes you are,” Matt said, smiling and reaching out to touch the side of Brody’s face.

“No, I’m not,” Brody murmured as they drew closer together. Their lips were scant inches apart.

“Yes you are,” Matt said again, his voice low and hypnotic.

“I can’t do that,” Brody whispered, his hands finding Matt’s hips and pulling him closer.

“Yes you can,” Matt said, as their lips met.

First kisses, Brody knew, were always imperfect. It was part of their charm, and this one was indeed imperfect, but not for the usual reasons of hesitancy, tentativeness, or even clumsiness. This kiss was smooth and sure. This kiss was a fire in an elevator shaft, a burst of heat starting down low and burning its way upward, faster and faster. Matt’s strong, stocky body fitted neatly against his, warm and solid, and their mouths opened together, the kiss deepening, tempting them both with the prospect of complete surrender.

This kiss was imperfect because it was instantly too much, and they were standing inside a seafood refrigerator, and they had known each other for less than a week. It was hard to stop, but Brody managed it by reminding himself that they were standing in a puddle of rotting fish parts. This was neither the time nor the place.

“You make a very persuasive argument,” Brody said hoarsely, as they finally broke apart. “Let’s go, before I come to my senses.”

* * *

Within the hour, they were sitting together on the foredeck of Matt’s rented fishing boat, listening to the regular sonar beeping of the fish finder and staring up at the stars. Below them was the heaving sea; above stretched the infinite mystery of the void. They were at the mercy of the waves and tides and the indifferent universe, but even these vast, incomprehensible phenomena can sometimes feel kind. Despite the wild unlikelihood of love, it does still exist, and it never seems more unlikely or miraculous than at its beginning.

“If you don’t like the ocean,” Matt asked, “Why did you decide to live on an island?”

“It only seems like an island from the water,” Brody said, and Matt nodded.

“That makes a lot of sense,” he replied. He pulled Brody’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly. Brody could feel Matt’s smile against his skin.

“What do you do when you’re not investigating rogue, human-killing sharks?”

“I study other sharks,” Matt said. “In a couple of months I’ll be joining the crew of the _Aurora_. It’s a science vessel. Eighteen months at sea, pure research.”

Brody felt a little pang of loss at this announcement. “Eighteen months is a long time,” he said quietly.

“It is. When I signed up, I didn’t think I’d have any regrets. Now, I’m not so sure.” He turned a little, meeting Brody’s eyes. “But we’ll have to come back to port eventually.”

“I suppose you will,” Brody agreed.

“Plus…we go where the sharks are,” he said. “And there seems to be some interesting and unusual shark activity near this little island.”

“You don’t say?”

“I _do_ say. It’s very scientifically interesting. Possibly the most scientifically interesting island in the country.”

“Well then.”

“Well then,” Matt repeated softly. He captured Brody’s face between his hands and pulled him close.

It was a safe kiss; the encounter earlier in the evening had made them wary of the strength of their attraction. There was also the steady beeping of the fish finder, reminding them that there was work to be done, and that they were surrounded by the ocean wilderness. At any moment, their quarry could appear, and they would have to react. They kept the contact light, connecting only with mouths and hands, maintaining a little space between them. Brody’s hands traced the broad lines of Matt’s shoulders, the taper of his torso, the shape of his strong jaw. They bumped teeth and made adjustments to accommodate Brody’s left-handedness and generally fumbled around, tasting and teasing and liking one another more for it.

The fish finder continued to beep with increasing speed and complexity, until finally, reluctantly, Matt pulled away, trailing one hand along Brody’s jaw as he stood. “I’d better check this out,” he said, heading for the panel of beeping devices. He grew more serious as he studied the instruments.

“There’s something big – or maybe it’s just a large school of mackerel, all flocked together? Whatever it is, it’s staying right with us.”

At that moment, something bumped against their hull.

“What was that?” Brody asked, peering in the direction from which the sound had come.

“I don’t know.” Matt said, turning on a spotlight and shining it into the darkness. He scanned the light back and forth, and on the third sweep, he stopped. There, listing to one side against their hull, was the wreckage of a small fishing boat.

“That’s Ben Gardner’s boat,” Brody said. “You know, the fisherman?”

“A friend of yours?”

“We used to bowl together. The boat’s all banged up – what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said, staring at the wreck. “I’d better get down there and check out the hull,” he added, gathering his diving gear from a hatch in one of the bulkheads and stripping off his clothes.

“Why don’t we just tow it in?” Brody asked, trying –but not very hard, and failing – to avert his eyes from Matt’s athletic nude form.

“We will, we will, but I just want to check something out.” Within a minute, Matt had zipped into a wetsuit and tipped backwards off the side of the boat. He vanished beneath the inky surface of the water.

He was only gone for two minutes, but it felt like hours. Brody paced nervously across the boat’s deck until he heard a splash and a sharp cry. He ran to the side of the boat.

Matt was treading water, his mask shoved up on top of his head, eyes a little wild. He extended a hand toward Brody. “Help me up?” he asked. He looked as alluring as a merman, his sleek wet head and shoulders held effortlessly above the water. Brody, chest still tight with worry, extended a hand and hauled him back aboard.

“Are you okay? What happened?” he demanded, his heart slowing as it became clear that the younger man was safe and intact.

“Ben Gardner –you know - the fisherman?” he gasped. “He’s dead. And it’s not just any shark. It’s a great white.”

* * *

They moored the boat about a half hour later. It was still dark, somewhere between late and early, and they were both exhausted.

“What should we do?” Matt asked. “Should we even bother to notify the mayor? Do you think he’ll listen to reason?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t put much stock in science, obviously. I think we’ll have to handle it ourselves. Actually, I think I know someone who might be able to help. We can go see them tomorrow. Or later today. Whatever.”

“Sounds good,” Matt said. There was a slightly awkward silence.

“Where are you staying?” Brody asked. “Can I drive you somewhere?”

Matt gestured at the boat. “I’ve been sleeping aboard,” he said. “But actually, it’s such a beautiful night…I was thinking it might be nice to lay out a blanket and sleep on the beach.”

“That…sounds really nice.” Brody was scuffing one foot against the weathered wood of the pier. He glanced up and smiled to find Matt doing the same thing.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?” Matt asked, a hopeful lift in his voice.

It was moving a little fast, Brody knew, but he also knew that Matt would be gone soon, for eighteen months, and he had been alone for what felt like forever, and any willpower he might have had dissolved instantly at the look on Matt’s handsome face. “I would love that,” he said. “Yes.”

Matt unfolded a huge woolen blanket on the sand in a secluded cove a short walk from the marina. They lay barefoot, staring up at the sky for a while. The sudden removal of all constraints to intimacy made them both shy, but eventually, Matt turned and pulled Brody’s face close, and kissed him, tenderly, on the mouth. That was all it took.

Later, Brody would not remember the exact sequence of events that followed; he would only recall the sudden absolute urgency of removing Matt’s tattered sweatshirt, the feel of Matt’s hands sliding warm and welcome against his own chest, the way their legs had tangled tightly as their hips surged together. They were inexpert and generous and impatient and noisy, both so desperate for one another it made them delirious.

Matt tasted of wine and something a little salty, and despite the blanket, there were a few grains of sand pressed between their lips. Brody didn’t care, he swept them away with the back of his hand when they came up for air.

“I’d like to-“ he began, and Matt gasped, “Yes,” before he could even finish. He practically tore Matt’s jeans open in his haste. Matt helped him shove them down, just as eager as Brody for the contact, and in seconds Brody closed his lips over the head of Matt’s cock, eliciting a groan of pleasure so erotic Brody jerked in response. He wasn’t sure what Matt might like, but he knew what he liked, so he started there, wrapping his thumb and index finger around the base of Matt’s shaft and moving up and down slowly with his mouth, sliding his tongue along the underside.

The noises Matt made in response to this, coupled with curses and even commands (“Oh GOD,” and “Oh, fuck,” and “Don’t Stop,”) were so arousing Brody almost couldn’t focus on what he was doing. Matt moved against him, trying to get him to speed up, but Brody resisted, clamping his free hand onto Matt’s hip, urging him to stay still. This resulted in more cursing, but Brody had hit his stride and stayed with his slow, almost tormenting pace.

When Matt finally came it was electric, his body arching with the force of it, his head pressing back against the sand. Brody stayed where he was, caressing Matt’s hip gently, as the other man collected himself.

“That was amazing,” Matt said, sitting up and rolling on top of Brody. “But you’re in trouble now,” he whispered into his ear, before kissing his way down Brody’s lean torso and carefully unfastening the buttons of Brody’s jeans, one at a time, lingering over the task. Brody was almost in agony, he was so turned on, and he tried to distract himself, thinking about crime statistics and car repairs and anything other than the urgent ache between his legs.

Then the core of his being turned to liquid heat in Matt’s mouth, and no distraction was possible. This was where he started to lose track of things; he had no sense of time, and would never remember any of the things that he said – he didn’t even know he was saying them at the time. He wouldn’t remember pushing up against the hard give of the sand, trying to get closer, to feel more.

He would remember the way his orgasm boiled up and over the edges of his restraint, the way he gripped Matt’s shoulders hard to keep from yelling with the force of it, but not Matt asking if he was okay, and not how he almost sobbed his reply of “Yes, of course, my god, my _god_ …”.

Afterward, they lay together, damp and sticky and unutterably happy, breath slowing, bodies cooling in the brisk sea air. Brody could think of nothing to say, and nothing that needed to be said. He held Matt in his arms and they fell asleep on the sand.

* * *

Carlos, who remembered - and recognized - quite a lot, set the story aside, his face a little hot. He glanced over at his phone, wondering if Cecil was okay, if he should try to call again. He had been getting voicemail more often than not lately, and after what he had just read, he felt almost desperate to hear Cecil’s voice, even at an unknown distance through the phone. But…there _had_ been that discussion of boundaries. Carlos looked away from the phone again, and stood up, picking up the stack of papers.

There were several pages left, and he desperately wanted to read them, but he also wanted something of Cecil to look forward to. He didn’t recognize much that he recalled from _Jaws_ in Cecil’s story, and there was no telling where it might go. For now, he thought, it might be good to end on a high note.

He folded up the story, careful to preserve the Post-Its stuck to the first page, and placed them carefully in his pocket. Better to save the rest for later, he decided.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the middle, and the end!

The following afternoon, while the masked warriors and the recently discovered Night Vale citizens were having a potluck in the hot yoga studio, Carlos slipped away to his laboratory and unfolded the stapled pages on his desk. He flipped ahead to the middle, where he had left off, and began reading again.

* * *

The water in the onboard solar shower was tepid, but neither Matt nor Brody noticed. They had awoken early, when the air cooled and dampened and the surf grew noisy with the tide. It was still dark, but the air was blue with the promise of dawn, and the two of them had folded up the blanket and made their way a little blearily down the beach toward the docks and Matt’s boat.

It was too early and quiet for words. They stripped off their clothes and slipped inside the narrow stall together. Brody put his arms around Matt and pulled him close, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder, and they stood that way for several minutes, passively allowing the water to rinse the sand from their skin. Then Matt slid his hands around Brody’s face and kissed him, and Brody felt like he was lost and found at the exact same time.

(Beneath this paragraph was a note: _Wait, Cecil, what?_ Cecil’s reply followed: _If you don’t already understand, I can’t explain it to you, but I do hope that you find out one day, because it is wonderful._ This made Carlos smile.)

For the last several days, Brody had thought often about his heart, which had always lived so unobtrusively in his chest, only making its presence felt during bouts of strenuous activity or, occasionally, during nightmares. He was aware of it now, of its stuttering frailty, of the chemical messages it tapped out over some invisible telegraph wire, thumping patiently as it awaited a response.

Maybe that wire terminated somewhere in Matt’s chest, a little ways north of his liver. Maybe their bodies understood these messages, messages their brains never received or acknowledged. Their chests pressed together, then their hips, and they moved together slowly in the cramped space of the shower. Matt pulled Brody’s leg up and around his hip as he gently pushed Brody back against a ledge in the wall, and the wordless conversation their bodies were having continued.

* * *

“Who is this person you think can help?” Matt asked as they walked past the more upscale part of the marina and into the busier, grittier part of the docks that was occupied by working fishermen.

Brody explained. “I guess I’d describe Quint as an anti-shark vigilante?” Brody mused. “It’s more complicated than that, but…well, you’ll see. Here we are,” he gestured at a rather run-down boathouse set a little back from the other structures that lined the pier. They knocked on the door, which rattled on its rusted hinges, and a voice from inside yelled, “Come in!”

The interior of the boathouse was as unprepossessing as its exterior, although it was at least neat and well-kept. A battered wooden table near the center of the space was stacked with nautical charts, books, fishing tackle, and other odds and ends, and in a chair at its head sat a small young woman, hair neatly braided, her head bent over a book. “Who is it and what do you want?” she asked, without looking up.

“It’s Chief Brody,” Brody said, moving into the center of the room. Quint looked up from her book with a flicker of interest.

“So it is.” Her eyes flicked over to Matt, then leveled a speculative glance at Brody. “You look relaxed.”

“Well,” Brody said, a little flustered. He had forgotten how astute Quint could be when it came to subtext. “In fact, I’m not. But before we get into that, I’d like you to meet Matt Hooper.” He made the introductions, and Quint invited them to sit down.

Brody proceeded to explain the events of the last few days, and laid out his request. “Matt tells me that if we can’t make Amity Island less interesting for this shark – by shutting down the beaches – the only way to maintain public safety if to kill it. I think you’re the only person who can help us do that.”

Quint regarded Matt and Brody, an assessing look in her eye. She took a sip from the can of Narragansett cola at her elbow and carefully marked her place in her book. As she closed it, Brody saw that it was ‘The Old Man and the Sea” by Ernest Hemingway.

“I’ll do it,” Quint said. “But it’ll cost you ten thousand dollars. And a case of apricot brandy. And every book on this list,” she added, pushing a slip of paper across the table. “The local library is pretty much a joke.”

Matt glanced at the list, then back up at Quint. “The complete works of Melville, Benchley, Conrad, O’Brien, Verne…I think I see a theme here.”

“Only one?” Quint asked.

“Maybe it would be more accurate to call it a leitmotif.”

Brody shot a sidelong glance at Matt, who was staring at the woman on the other side of the battered table. Her fit, compact body radiated physical competence, and her dark eyes were wise beyond her years. She wore a dessicated shark’s fin on a lanyard around her neck, and the walls of her boathouse were ornamented with the sprung jaws of hundreds of sharks. She noted Matt’s skeptical expression.

“Brody is right, you need me,” she said. “I know that Brody can make himself useful when he needs to, but he’s got some deep-seated weirdness about the ocean.” At this, Brody shrugged agreeably.

Quint pointed at Matt. “And pardon me for saying so, but you’re an interloper. You seem to have some book learning, and I respect that. But you won’t get anywhere without a _hunter_. Someone who knows what’s what when it comes to killing sharks. That person is me.”

“Do you have a boat?” Matt asked.

Quint lifted one finely arched brow. “How do you think I killed all these sharks?” she said, gesturing around the room. “Yeah, I got a boat. She’s called the _Orca_. And if you agree to my terms, we sail this afternoon.”

“The _Orca_ ,” Matt said, smiling in evident admiration. “The only natural enemy of the great white shark.”

“Not anymore,” Quint said, as Brody nodded and shook her hand in tacit agreement. “Now they better watch out for us, too.”

* * *

“Now hear this,” Quint said, as they cast off. “You're aboard the fishing vessel _Orca_ , and I'm her Captain, Master, Mate, and Owner. You'll jump when I holler. We're doing a job here, and I ain't got time to watch you birds get hooks in your asses and fall overboard. Ship with me, and you'll do all right. Cross me, and I'll slap you upside your heads. Now - if you boys are ready - let's go fishing.”

She began moving gear around, setting hooks and tying off ropes. Minutes later, they were headed to the open ocean.

For hours, they tossed scoops of bloody bait into the water, where the _Orca’s_ screws churned it into a creamy pink wake. Several dogfish and other smaller predators showed an interest, but no giant shark appeared to take the bait. The monotony continued through the following day.

In the peachy late afternoon light on the second day, Brody sat on an upturned bucket, practicing tying a sheepshank. The thin rope resisted his inexpert attempts, twisting into a bunched mess instead of a neat system of interconnected loops. Brody sighed.

“Here,” Matt said, leaning over Brody’s shoulder. He untied the twisted rope and laid it flat on his knee. “You’re doing this the hard way. Start by making an “S” with a loop on one end, then pull the bend of the “S” through the loop – see? Do the same thing on the other side, then pull the loose ends to tighten up.”

Brody turned to look at Matt, and was about to say something about how embarrassingly simple the knot had turned out to be, but before he could form any words, Matt’s lips were pressed to his. Brody tasted salt on his lips, and his skin was warm from the sun, and somewhere deep inside him he felt another knot pull tight. Matt slowly dropped to his knees and they gathered each other close.

“Thank god for you,” Brody said, burying his face in Matt’s shoulder and inhaling the faint laundry-soap scent that lingered even through stench of fish guts that hung over the _Orca_ like a fog. “This is so boring. If it weren’t for the pervasive fear and the unbelievable sexual tension, I’d have cast myself into the sea hours ago.”

“It’s always this way at sea,” Matt said, smiling. “Long stretches of boredom punctuated with short bursts of pure terror.” He kissed him again, and Brody clasped his hands around the nape of Matt’s neck, losing himself in the moment.

Suddenly, Quint cried out from the aft deck. “Damn,” Matt groaned as they broke apart. “Looks like we just hit one of those little bursts of terror.” They rose and made their way to the rear of the boat.

Quint had been trolling a baited line behind them all afternoon. “Look,” she said, pointing to a spot about 30 feet beyond the boat’s hull. A huge dark shape rippled by just below the surface. “He’s scented the bait, just testing so far, but he might decide to hit it at any moment.”

The steel cable she was using to troll bait was attached to a huge steel crank assembly bolted to a plate on the deck. She freed the spool so it could spin, letting the line go slack.

“There’s no way we’re going to land that shark,” Quint said. “But I might get him mad, get him up out of the water. Arm yourselves, gentlemen. This might be our chance.”

Brody was ahead of her. There were two guns, one rifle and one that shot tranquilizer darts. He handed the tranquilizer gun to Matt and emptied two boxes of shells into a bucket lashed to the rail. They knelt down behind the railing, and leveled the guns toward the glimmering cable where it trailed behind the _Orca_.

“Did you actually see it?” Matt whispered, glancing back at Quint.

“Just the shape, the shadow,” she replied.

“And you’re sure it was a shark?” he asked.

She glanced at him, looking irritated. “Yes, it was a shark. I know sharks.” She caught Matt’s skeptical glance at Brody and added, almost as if she were reciting something, “ _What is more built for winning than the swept-back teeth, water-finished fins, and pure bad eyes these old, efficient forms of appetite are dressed in?_ You can trust me, college boy. I _know_ sharks.”

“Look,” Brody hissed. He gestured with his chin at the fishing line. It had gone taut. For a moment, everything seemed almost eerily still, then the line whizzed out of its spool so fast smoke started to rise from the crank.

“Sweet fancy Moses,” Quint muttered, glancing down at the spool. “He’s running with it. He’s going to be at least 75 feet out, that’s how much line we’ve got!”

Brody raised the sight of his rifle to adjust for the greater distance, and watched as the line flew farther and farther, drawing a foaming line across the sea.

“Holy shit,” Matt said, as the line snapped taut and the whole boat lurched. Brody glanced back over his shoulder and saw the smoking spool strain against the crankcase, the bolts come loose, and then the line separated with a pop and whipped overboard with a splash.

“That line is braided steel cable, 1600-pound test, it’s virtually unbreakable,” Quint said, staring out at the water. “And he snapped it like dental floss.”

There was a rushing sound then from the water, and Brody turned in time to see the shark, now a scant fifteen feet from the _Orca_ , rise to the surface of the water, fin first, the curve of its gleaming back breaking the surface just before the fish writhed, flipping over and disappearing beneath the waves with a violent lash of its tail. It was over so quickly neither he nor Matt had time to set up a shot, but Brody wasn’t sure he could have brought himself to shoot the animal even if he’d had fifteen minutes to prepare.

“Twenty feet, if he’s an inch…” Matt breathed, staring at the place where the shark had gone under.

“Twenty-five, and three tons of him there,” Quint said quietly.

“I’ve only ever heard fish stories about sharks that big,” Matt said, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. “I’ve never actually _seen_ one.”

“Neither have I,” Quint said. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

* * *

Later that night, as the _Orca_ rested at anchor and Quint caught a few hours of sleep in her cabin, Brody and Matt sat together on the foredeck.

“You seem to have overcome your ocean phobia,” Matt said.

“Oh, no,” Brody said, smiling halfheartedly. “It’s much worse now, actually. It turns out I also have a crippling fear of enormous killer sharks. This ‘strong, silent type’ thing I’m doing is all an act.”

“Poor thing,” Matt said. “Here, let me see if I can kiss it better.”

After a little while, Brody replied, “I think it’s working…but we should keep it up, just to be sure.”

Matt slid his hands under Brody’s t-shirt, hauling the garment up and over Brody’s head. He gently pressed Brody backward until he was lying flat across the deck, and kissed his way from collarbone to hip, pausing to lavish extra attention on nipples and navel.

“What about the shark?” Brody whispered. “Shouldn’t we…?”

“In horror movies,” Matt said, between kisses. “The creature or the serial killer or whatever never turns up until someone has sex. I figured we’d try it and see what happens.”

“So…” Brody said, as Matt’s hands slid down his torso and went to work on his jeans. “You’re saying that this is a strategic move to draw the shark out of hiding?”

“Well, no,” Matt said. “I’d actually prefer not to be interrupted.”

Brody inhaled sharply as he felt Matt’s hand move between his legs. He closed his eyes and groaned softly.

“Sshhh…you’ll wake up the sharks!” Matt whispered, and giggled. Then they both started giggling. Then laughing.

“Oh sh-shit,” Brody laughed, hugging Matt close. They kissed through the laughter, and eventually the heat of the kiss melted what remained of their giddiness. Matt moved his hips against Brody’s, then his hand, and finally, sweetly and exquisitely, his mouth.

“Oh, god, Matt,” Brody whispered softly, his hips rising to meet each stroke despite his efforts to stay still. His breath hitched as heat rose from where he and Matt were joined, sweeping through him in waves, tension and pleasure tightening within him as his hands found Matt’s head and pressed gently. His breath came in harsh gusts and his lungs burned, every muscle in his body tensed. His bare elbows scraped against the rough wooden decking, but he barely felt it, every nerve occupied with the sensation of Matt’s mouth and tongue on his cock.

He didn’t feel the first bump, but he did feel the second. The boat shuddered, then drifted and tugged at the sea anchor. Matt stopped what he was doing, - _an unspeakable tragedy,_ Brody thought, struggling to collect himself. “What…” his voice was dreamy and hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What was that?”

“I don’t…” Matt’s eyes widened suddenly and he pointed over Brody’s shoulder. Brody turned, and at first, he saw nothing, only darkness. Then he was able to discern the slightly darker shape of the gleaming triangular fin slicing through the water toward the _Orca_ , just before the little vessel shook again with the impact to her lower decks.

“Damn it,” Matt whispered. “I really, really didn’t want that to work.”

* * *

A few minutes later, clothes put to rights but still struggling for composure, Brody asked, “What is it doing? Is it trying to sink the boat?”

Quint had come running after the second impact and was now leaning over the taffrail, looking for damage. “If he is, he hasn’t made much progress,” she said. “Yet,” she added, ominously.

“Is this what happened to Ben Gardner – you know, the fisherman?” Brody asked.

“Maybe,” Matt said.

“Probably,” Quint corrected.

“Is this normal?” Brody asked.

“Great whites have been known to attack small vessels, but I’ve never heard of one attacking a boat of this size,” Matt said.

“They will if they think there’s food aboard,” Quint said. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Brody, Matt, get the harpoon gun. We’ve got to stop him before he punches a hole in our hull.”

The harpoon gun was a wicked-looking weapon that resembled a cross between a rifle and a crossbow. Brody loaded a harpoon with a huge barbed point at the end into the gun and handed it to Quint. She picked it up and leveled it at the dark water.

“I need light,” she said. “Matt, light up one of those spots on the bridge. If you see him, keep the light trained on him.”

The boat shook again with an impact and Matt aimed the light toward the other side of the _Orca._ Several more taps followed, but none as powerful as those the shark had inflicted at first. In fact, these seemed to have very little momentum behind them at all.

“Is it…what, like, running out of energy or something? It doesn’t even feel like it’s really trying,” Brody said. Several more taps against the hull followed, then there was a long pause. They stood silently, balancing carefully on the lightly rocking deck, waiting. A minute later, the taps started again. Tap-tap. Tap, tap. Tap-tap.

“Is that…?” Quint asked. Then, “No effing way.”

“Is it what?” Brody asked, as the shark lightly bumped the _Orca’s_ hull several more times. Another pause, then it began again. Quint dropped the harpoon gun and ran down into the cabin, emerging seconds later with a pad and pencil. She drew a series of dots and dashes:  
.. .-.. --- ...- . -.-- --- ..-

“Morse code?” Brody asked, incredulous.

“What?” Matt said, joining them on the aft deck. “No way. I’m sorry, but there is just absolutely no way.”

“Look,” Quint said, holding out the pad as the taps began again. She let her finger follow each dot and dash as the shark continued to bump against the hull.

“Do you even know Morse code?” Matt asked. “What does that mean?”

“Wait,” Quint said, crouching and rapping on the wooden deck with one fist in a series of quick knocks. She went through the sequence once, counted to thirty, and did the whole thing over again.

Brody felt a strange sense of unreality. “Do you really think it will respond?” he asked, even as the bumping started again. To his surprise, at the end of the sequence of hull nudges, Quint smiled and knocked against the hull again.

“I asked what he wants,” she explained. “He said he just wants to talk. I said that’s fine, go ahead. He’s saying…um, he’s asking if it’s me?” She knocked against the deck again, a long complicated sequence. “I said yes, this is Quint.”

This strange percussive conversation continued for several more minutes, but Quint refused to translate further. “Okay,” she finally said. “Um. This is a little embarrassing, actually.” To Brody’s amazement, she looked a little nervous.

“What?” he asked. “Please just tell us what’s going on – if this shark is going to kill us, I’d just as soon know right now. There are things I’d really like to do before I die.”

Quint smiled and laid a hand on his arm. “No, it’s not going to kill us. It’s just been trying to get our attention. Well, _my_ attention, actually. All of this – the attacks on the tourists, everything. Now that he has it, he says he doesn’t need to attack anyone else. I’ve asked him to stop, actually.”

“The shark,” Brody said slowly, clinging to his sanity with difficulty. “Who can use Morse code, told you he just wanted to get your attention.”

“Yes.”

“And you told him to stop all the killing, and he just said ‘okay?’”

“Well, yes. I don’t know if it will be that easy…at least as long as he stays a shark. He says he got a little carried away, I guess the essential _sharkiness_ of sharks was hard to resist.”

“Could you please just tell us what the hell is going on?” Matt asked. “You lost me somewhere back during the whole Morse code conversation with the shark.”

“Well, that’s just it,” Quint explained. “It’s not really a shark at all. His name is Josh, and we go to school together. He just wanted to ask me to prom.”

* * *

“So,” Brody said, a half hour later, as they sat at the galley table in the _Orca’s_ cabin, an open bottle of apricot brandy open before them, “The whole town has been terrorized by a lovesick teenager. Your prospective prom date _ate_ three people – at _least_ three, three that we know of – just to get your attention?”

“You make it sound so extreme,” Quint said. “But…yeah. He said he tried being a monarch butterfly and a meadowlark and a few other things, but I was so obsessed with sharks, that seemed like the only way to get through to me.” She glanced back and forth between Matt and Brody and held up two hands, palms out. “Look, it wasn’t my idea,” she said. “Don’t ask me to explain what you boys get up to. I just wanted to hunt sharks and sail the open ocean with the complete works of Jules Verne. He’s the one who’s been chomping on tourists as an expression of love or whatever.”

“Teenagers,” Brody sighed, sinking his hands into his hair. “Is he going to keep being a shark? You did ask him to stop, right?”

“Well…” Quint said. “I mean, he’s an _amazing_ looking shark, though.”

“Are you going to go to prom with him?” Matt asked, and at Brody’s outraged expression, he shrugged and half smiled. “Hey, I’m barely suspending my disbelief,” he said. “But if this is where we are in this story, I think it’s an important point.”

“I told him I’d think about it,” Quint said haughtily. She looked at Brody. “If he changes into a human or some other terrestrial animal for prom, are you going to arrest him?”

Brody looked wistfully at the brandy bottle but didn’t refill his glass. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ll have to consult the town bylaws. I don’t think there’s any provision for the prosecution of crimes committed while someone is living as a different species. Sharks aren’t held to the same moral and ethical standards as humans. I will point out, though, that half of Amity’s population and a handful of interlopers are still out hunting him. He won’t be safe out there.”

Matt’s brow furrowed and he asked, “I thought you _hated_ sharks. Why did he think being a shark was the way to get you on his good side? I don’t get it.”

“I do hate sharks,” Quint said, one hand unconsciously touching the shark fin that hung around her neck. “A shark…hurt me once. I don’t really like to talk about it, but…I guess Josh could sense that the kind of hate I have in my heart for sharks could only really come from…well. Like I said. I don’t like to talk about it.” Even in the dim overhead galley light, it was possible to see her dark skin redden a little. 

Matt looked at Brody, who shrugged.  


Quint turned toward the hatch, straightening her shoulders and visibly shaking off her discomfiture. “Now I’m getting us home,” she said, hurrying out of the cabin.

* * *

“Love is weird,” Matt said later, snuggling in close behind Brody, his breath tickling the nape of Brody’s neck.

“Hmm,” Brody murmured, as he kissed Matt’s hand and pulled his arm more tightly around his waist.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do about the shark – or Josh, or whoever?”

“The only thing I can think of is to talk to his mom,” Brody said. “If he doesn’t stop being a shark voluntarily, maybe she can talk some sense into him.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Matt agreed. “Tired?” he asked, as Brody yawned.

“Exhausted,” Brody answered. “I don’t even know what day it is. Or what day it’s going to be.”

“Too tired to pick up where we left off?”

“Never.”

* * *

(Here, Maureen had written: _I can’t believe I’m actually going to write this, but…this ending needs sex. Sex! Sex. Especially after the earlier interruption. This is literally anticlimactic._

Cecil’s reply: _I thought it was more romantic to leave it to the reader’s imagination._

Maureen: _This is supposed to be a slashfic, and slashfic is NOT about leaving things up to readers’ imaginations. Sex, Cecil._

Cecil: _You know, you’re right. I need to respect the medium._ )

* * *

“Good,” Matt said, kissing Brody’s neck, turning him gently so they were facing each other. “We’re finally in an actual bed. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.” He kissed Brody softly and briefly on the mouth.

__“Isn’t it strange to be doing this without a dead shark on the floor, or a bucket of chopped up bait fish standing nearby, or sand everywhere, or the looming peril of an awful death hanging over us?” he asked, smiling._ _

__“It is,” Brody agreed. He kissed Matt back, and soon they were caught up in the back and forth of kissing, losing track of time and worry and inhibition. Matt tasted good, and felt even better, his strong arms clasping him close as they almost unconsciously began to move their bodies together. They shifted and gasped and repositioned their bodies several times before they found something that worked, but oh, how it worked, Brody sliding between Matt’s slick thighs and Matt’s cock held in Brody’s hand. It felt intimate and almost luxuriously pleasurable after the limitations of their earlier encounters. They kissed wantonly as they carried each other along, making small sounds of pleading and encouragement, their increasingly sharp and shallow breaths the only sound in the predawn stillness of the room until Matt finally cried out and Brody followed quickly after him._ _

__Brody felt warm and comfortable in Matt’s arms afterwards, as he enjoyed the feeling of settling back into his body that always followed a particularly intense orgasm. He felt safe and cared for, and tried to remember ever having this particular feeling in anyone else’s arms, and couldn’t._ _

__Dim gray light filtered through the blinds as they began to drift off to sleep. Matt glanced up and snuggled closer, burying his face against Brody’s shoulder, murmuring “You must have beautiful views of the ocean from here.”_ _

__Brody made a noncommittal noise, “Hmm,” deep in his throat and kissed the top of Matt’s head. He thought about the ocean, the vastness, and the loneliness it opened inside him whenever he stared at it. He thought, as the world slowly melted away, that maybe, knowing that Matt was on the ocean somewhere, he might leave his blinds open from now on._ _

__* * *_ _

__Carlos set the pages down, bemused. It was a strange story, a story that made him wonder about the version of _Jaws_ that was shown at Night Vale’s Barista Cultural Faire or on late-night municipally-approved TV. It made him miss Cecil, which was expected, but even more than that, it made him miss Night Vale, which was totally unexpected._ _

__As he re-folded the story, he wondered if he and Cecil would ever get a chance to watch the original, redacted movie together one day. He folded the pages again and slipped them back into the pocket over his heart. On his way back to the yoga studio, he stopped for several minutes to stare up at the void, and wondered if Cecil was doing the same somewhere in Night Vale._ _


End file.
